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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28717935">calvariæ</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/artreactor/pseuds/artreactor'>artreactor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>4chan, Ableism, Ableist Language, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol/Drug Shaming, Anti-Corsican Flavour Xenophobia, Anti-Kin, Asphyixiation, Audience Antagonism, Blood, Brainhacking, Brainwashing, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Catholicism, Choking, Christian Imagery, Depression, Diet Mention, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Dubious Meta Rambling, Even if he's in Star Wars, Fascism, Gun Violence, Guns, If in doubt assume something mean will be said about your fave, Implied Transphobia, Incels - Freeform, M/M, Mass Character Hate, Mental Illness, Napoleon is there Somehow, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Passing Reference to Euthanising Animals (like Old Yeller though), Rape Culture, Red Pill Rhetoric, Referenced Decapitation, Referenced Sexual Assault, Several Brief References to Pathogen Related Content, Sexual Content, Sexual References, Slut Shaming, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, Taylor Swift (non-derogatory), The Homestuck Epilogues, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat, Toxic Masculinity, Ultimate Dirk Strider, Victim Blaming, Violence, Vomit Mention, Wildly Inaccurate Philosophical Takes, Xenophobia, breeding mention, broken glass, greentext, mental break, misogynistic language, puppeting, referenced sexual abuse, religious appropriation, std mention, unreality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:53:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28717935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/artreactor/pseuds/artreactor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no happy ending for people like us. We exist to be misery lit.</p><p>(Part of the DirkJake Big Bang 2021, with artwork by @mayceart)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jake English/Dirk Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>DirkJake Big Bang 2k21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>i. stage</h1>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">
    <i>“There have been, and will be again, many destructions of mankind arising out of many causes; the greatest have been brought about by the agencies of fire and water, and other lesser ones by innumerable other causes. There is a story, which even you have preserved, that once upon a time Paethon, the son of Helios, having yoked the steeds in his father's chariot, because he was not able to drive them in the path of his father, burnt up all that was upon the earth, and was himself destroyed by a thunderbolt. Now this has the form of a myth, but really signifies a declination of the bodies moving in the heavens around the earth, and a great conflagration of things upon the earth, which recurs after long intervals; at such times those who live upon the mountains and in dry and lofty places are more liable to destruction than those who dwell by rivers or on the seashore. And from this calamity the Nile, who is our never-failing saviour, delivers and preserves us.”</i>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">“Timaeus,” Plato</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">The older I get, the less I appreciate Plato.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Look, I get that this is a big fucking shock to you. But Dirk, you say, blubbering through thick snotted tears like some execrable ingenue who’s been waiting this entire time with bated breath to hear me spill some honest truths about Timaeus and can’t believe that the truths I’m about to spill are going to be eh, 6/10, but Dirk, I thought Plato was your thing? Or maybe you don’t. Humour me. I’m going to take a moment to address those of you who are, in fact, simpering, snivelling, and overly caught up in the rigidity of character permanence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Regrettably, this kind of pathetic side step around engaging in any manner of critical thought is not new to me. It’s not my first dalliance in this realm. You couldn’t be that special. One could say lack of critical thinking skills has already been embodied by an arguably discreditable five years of my sex life. Me and a lack of critical thought could have settled down with a rusty picket fence and two point five blue-eyed blond-haired kitchen appliances if it wasn’t for my unfortunate affliction of having more than two brain cells not devoted to moony-eyed ambivalence towards the deterioration of my own character arc. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You’d call it a tragedy. Otherwise you wouldn’t be wasting your time reading this. You’ve sought this narrative out, with the pathetic desperation of a child trying to glue the arm of a Transformers action figure back on. The petulant stubbornness is indistinguishable from nescience as you insist to yourself that it’s not broken, there’s simply been some mistake. This isn’t the end, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">However, since this apparently leaves me as a beacon calling out to all those with bad takes, like a parasocial lighthouse, consider this a one time opportunity to be thoroughly schooled by yours truly. This is your introduction to Hooks, Campbell, and the philosophy module of my multi-universal mentorship in the greater arts of combat, philosophy, life, and love, all rolled into a textual spliff for you to kill off a couple more adolescent brain cells with, thus rendering this narrative exercise entirely useless. It’s a metaphor. You wouldn’t get it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Digressing, back to Plato. I’m sure some have already done the legwork on the guy. Mostly those of you who fantasise that I’d let you suck my ethereal dick for some basic Wikipedia scrolling or those of you who believe you can “kin” me- need I remind you that identity theft is still a crime, and one of the few I don’t take liberties with. Those of you who have taken the time to make a cursory Google search or those who have not alike should be aware of one immutable fact, one that would irrevocably change any chill dude like me’s opinion on even the most previously revered Greek scholar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">That one specific point that no one has stopped to consider before now is this: Plato is a bitch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Shocking, I know, but what purpose does Plato serve in the grand scheme of things other than to be Socrates’ whiny little bitch boy, following him around like a lapdog and documenting all of his grandiose ramblings. Plato is nothing more than a parakeet, desperate and hoarse as it repeats the words of its master over and over again from the confines of history- or a cage, if the kinky fucker was into that. It wouldn’t have been historically inaccurate for him to have been, FYI. Greeks were wild. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Socrates isn’t even that interesting of a guy to follow once you get past the age of twelve. Sure, I have to hand it to the guy for giving me a lot of the inspiration for my since excellently honed dogma of “wreck shit now, consider paying for it later.” That old fuck really did know how to troll people. He would have been a fucking nightmare online. He got enough shit started on the street that I bet people started to cross the road when they saw him coming. Like some ancient philosophical Captain Planet- he’s not wrong, but does he have to be so fucking annoying about it all the time? And then he goes and gets axed anyway. What an anticlimax. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I don’t know why I brought this shitty Plato book with me. I’d already decided I’d overrated it in my youth before even planning any of this. Guess I thought I could do with some light reading in between all the fucking space tasks I clearly have to get done. Whittle the days away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I put the book back on the shelf by the bedside locker. It’s crammed with mid-2000s Spider-Girl comics that I’ve already thumbed through, losing whatever remaining self-respect I’ve been trying to earn back. There’s a mirror over the wall and I run my fingers back through my hair. It’s been a while since I’ve showered, but I’ve less need to do so religiously these days. I’ve plenty of space to ruminate elsewhere as long as I avoid the fucking vents. Consider that both profanity and adjective. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I don’t look any older. They say you reach your prime at 21, then you start to prune up. My skin’s perfect and I stopped growing half a decade ago, so there’s probably some semblance of truth to that. Can’t say I buy it otherwise though. Who the fuck’s in their prime at 21? I sure as fuck wasn’t. Much like Plato, me at my so-called prime was a primadonna bitch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Needless to say, I have little respect for bitch boys. Where does rolling over and spending your whole life cooing over some incoherent old coot get you? Sure, it gets you on the cover of history books. People remember your name. But is that what you fucking want? Is your entire legacy your name, followed by another man’s doctrine? To be the footnote citation, the documentarian, to somebody else’s story?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I broke the mirror a while ago, in one of these so-called ruminations. I could blame the cabin fever- being stuck on a spaceship with two lesbians who insist on fucking above your head just to piss you off gets to a guy after a while. But to do so would be to pretend I haven’t always had a bit of a penchant for shattering my image. The pieces always fit back together, and my haphazard DIY job won’t ever make a father out of me, thank fucking christ, but it’s enough to reestablish my conviction that I splinter, not shatter. This was how it was always supposed to be. There was no point fighting it or arguing otherwise. Look at all the others before me who failed; who fought against their true nature to try to be something different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You know, there’s one thing Plato got right. “Those who are able to see beyond the shadows and lies of their culture will never be understood, let alone believed, by the masses.” You’ve probably seen it on a few edgy Pinterest boards, or as a particularly faux-intellectual slogan in Hot Topic. But if you’re not fourteen, it actually has some merit. How does one explain to people who don’t understand their actions all constitute part of an overarching story that you need to embrace your own villainy in order to keep their lives worth living? That they’d fade into irrelevancy if they didn’t have something fueling them to keep going? Guess it’s just my cross to bear, as per fucking usual. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You see, that’s my whole problem. I’ve got this shit locked down, but if you’re outside the containment chamber then how are you going to see that? I just look like the bad guy. I am also, of course, actually the bad guy as well. It’s a complicated sort of irony to explain why being the literal bad guy doesn’t make me the metaphorical bad guy. Though I’m sure anyone who’s seen a super-hero movie lately struggle to explain why their villain, who is technically right, still somehow needs to be stopped to restore the sanctity of capitalist pseudo-democracy so then they come up with some lame reason like he enjoys hunting people for sport, can understand the nuance. It’s harder with me (I’m not a sports guy) so you just refuse to critically examine that I could be anything but evil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I’m not all bad though. You remember that. You wouldn’t still be reading otherwise. So why is it so hard to believe that this is the only way? That I’ve got this under control. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I look in the mirror, and one hundred faces stare back through the cracks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I have this shit on lock. </span><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><h1>ii. lapsarian</h1>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I didn’t always have this shit on lock. As much as anyone might loathe to admit it, people aren’t born brilliant. Napoleon was a Corsican nationalist before getting a metric fuck tonne of statues built of him. Ain’t many statues of Corsica, are there? Though, statues aren’t exactly a correlative measure of greatness, aside from the many, many there have been of me across distant timelines over the years, none of which managing to get my jawline right. Just like no one quite managed to make a statue of Napoleon that showed just how tall he was. Unless they made horses a damn sight shorter in 19th century Paris. Not that the guy’s even that fucking short. Besides, greatness and a tall stature are also not mutually exclusive. There is a certain advantage a dude has when not burdened with altitude</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">That being said, don’t get me twisted. I don’t think the guy’s that great. I’m not some Napoleon fanboy. I’m not lining up outside an art museum, salivating over his weirdly visible boner through those white military pants, if only for the fact that I and any other barely competent historian knows what else is hiding in those pants. No, because the guy wasn’t just not born brilliant- he somehow was brilliant for like half a decade and then became thoroughly lame again. Which is, to say, pretty fucking unremarkable. Regardless, somehow his legacy remained slightly more than getting syphilis from some bitch, going mad, and invading Russia in the winter, despite that clearly being the most memorable thing about his life. I, at least, have avoided most of that, thank fucking Christ.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Anyway, visual examples may be needed here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="greentext"> &gt;Be me, circa 2 years ago.<br/>
&gt;Be face down on a mattress.<br/>
&gt;Have a loose spring jabbing you right in the fucking eyeball.<br/>
&gt;Be a fucking idiot, in both senses of the term.<br/>
&gt;Decide this is the last time you’re doing this.<br/>
&gt;It is not the last time you’re doing this.<br/>
&gt;Mattress never gets replaced. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">As far as I know anyway. Certainly not by the time it really was the last time, which was as not-worth-it as an Atkins’ cheat day. I’ll give him credit for one thing. He didn’t shove my head into loose springs unprompted. It was at my insistence because at least if I didn’t have to see his stupid mug I could pretend I was making some semblance of a sound decision. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Eventually he rolls off me and I watch as he scratches his chin in that faux ingenue performance for no one in particular. Gee whizz, what was all that about? How did my dick even get there? Ugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">I look away and roll on to my back. He’s got a fucking mirror on the ceiling, because he saw it in on an episode of CSI and didn’t get that one: it’s a fucking sex thing (evident by the fact that he never seemed to use it as a sex thing, or at the very least not with me) and two: it ended up splattered in an unsexy amount of mistress blood before the title sequence. I roll on to my other side and stare at the unhung paintings he picked up from some charity shop, lying abandoned propped up against the wall where they will stay and gather dust until he spills something on them or I put a foot through them and they’re tossed out like everything else he loses interest in. Napoleon’s cherubic, yellowish face stares back at me from where he’s gallantly perched on a stallion, poised over a precipice. Somehow, Napoleon remained a cultural zeitgeist and transcended universes too, which says less about his greatness and more about Earth-C’s over-reliance on talentless hacks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">“We need to stop doing this,” I say, pathetically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He’s silent for a moment. I hear him picking at his nails and think I’ll put my foot through this painting sooner rather than later. Put at least one of us out of our misery. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">“Yeah,” he responds, eventually. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I think we’ve had enough of that. No one needs to see such a shameless show of unguarded deplorability. Now I ask you this- could a truly evil person do this? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Of course your answer should be something along the lines of “uh, yes?” After all, there is basically no correlation between morality and sexual proclivities of this kind. I’m sure you won’t be aghast to hear that people can be top of the fucking food chain and still get dicked down, just as I’m sure you’re able to understand that people can be beta baby bitches and still know how to use their dick. Case in point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Anyway, moving on from that narrative memory. Fucking yikes, right. I’m sure I’ve something better to look at that doesn’t concern Jake English. I’ve done some things right in my life after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">There’s a ship that’s following me through space at the moment. I’m sure you’ve been keeping up to date with that. It’s not really a concern yet, seeing as Jake in a moment of extreme simpery gave me his fastest craft. One day I’ll stop and they’ll eventually catch up with me, of course, but by then the seeds of my plan will already be in motion. Kanaya will whisk Rose off like some vampiric B-movie knock-off of Utena, and Dave will be left with the unpleasant but prophetically necessary task of dispatching me from this realm. All in due time. I’ve come to terms with my inevitable death, and I’m sure even someone as narratively unaware as Dave has come to terms with the fact that it must be him to do it. No one else has as much practice with pear-shaped situations. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Dave will be the hero he never really wanted to be but was always written to be and, sure, it’ll plague him for a while. War plagues all good men. But he’ll get over it. Settle down with Karkat for his regrettably short lifespan and have a dozen grublets or something. They’ll ask about their kick ass grandfather they’ve heard about in the diluted early folklore for little brats and Dave will change the subject like they’re asking which pile of slime they crawled out of at conception, so Karkat will have to usher them aside to tell them not to talk about me. They won’t, but eventually my future demise is bound to show up in their history books and they’ll figure it all out for themselves. Maybe one of them will understand where I’m coming from. After all, none of this would happen if I don’t do what is necessary. But probably not. History is written by the surviving side. Plato callback, drop mic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You’re starting to understand why this is necessary for a story though, right? Sure, without me</span>
  <span class="narrative"> Dave wouldn’t be lying awake in bed, watching Karkat snore out of the corner of his eye because every time he closes them</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> he sees my lifeless body and his hands covered in my blood. But without me Dave would still be playing a slow burn long game with a smouldering firelighter. Or worse, stuck in some hetero obligation marriage, constantly wishing he could turn back the time and do one thing different but never considering that one thing would involve me. </span>
</p>
<p><span class="narrative">Speaking of obligations, seems like Jade’s broken out from hers.</span><span class="ultdirk"> Don’t know where that cherub bitch has fucked off to and frankly I don’t care. That seems like a problem for future me and future Jade.</span><span class="narrative"> She’s just thriving here in the kitchen, shoving peanuts into her non-allergic maw as she reads. 3am is a great time for research, and isn’t it better for her to have time to do that? She gets to focus on important things like science instead of pseudo-American politics and</span><span class="ultdirk"> babysitting her ecto-genitor as he vomits his guts’ worth of ket into a bar toilet. Without me, she’d still be hopping from bed to bed, from one failed connection to another, and wondering if she’s the problem. She’s not of course. It’s just her space. And her genes.</span> </p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Calliope’s happier thanks to me too. They’ve got this vent shit on lock. Karkat’s not too happy about that, but he’s happy about everything else right? He’s a big boy, I’m sure he can take a bit of vent-induced post traumatic stress. He wouldn’t have Dave if it wasn’t for all of this. </span>
</p>
<p>And then there’s Roxy.</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Yeah, that’s none of my business. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Look, I’m not transphobic. Obviously. I’m not that much of a hypocrite. I’m just saying Roxy’s newfound glorious tailspin into masculinity is of no concern to me. It’s certifiably none of my fucking business. Trying to make it my business is quite frankly kind of weird. That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter. It’s nothing to do with me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Let’s go somewhere else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Rose sits in the herbology sanctum of the ship, metal legs tucked under her as she observes a tangled vine with precise delicacy.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> She’s as happy as a being of her kind can be with her situation. Without me, her soul would be strewn from one end of the universe to the other, cursed with the burden of knowledge and nowhere to disperse it. This way she can continue to be useful to the greater narrative while also maintaining some level of humanity. It’s not ideal, sure, but it’s a life. She’s probably the one person on the wavelength that is necessary for understanding that this is the only way. She knows how important she and I are in the grand scheme of this world. It’s the burden we both carry now.</span>
  <span class="narrative"> Her fist closes around the vine and she crushes it expertly in one cold, mechanical hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Meanwhile, class favourite Terezi is on lookout.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> She spends a lot of time looking out at the expanse of space passing us by, thinking of the years she wasted out there in its cold, unforgiving embrace, waiting for the embrace of another. She knows what it’s like to be the one left behind, the unnecessary extra baggage from another life. She dedicated her youth to following Vriska’s smoke screen and for what? Sometimes realising shit’s hopeless is the only way to break out from its chains. She knows that there was no other way. She wasn’t left behind this time.</span>
  <span class="narrative"> She presses a hand to the glass, scowls, and withdraws it as a fist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Somewhere else entirely, Jane taps her fingernails on an oblong desk, holding a fountain pen with her other hand.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> She’s had a childhood of classes to perfect the expert swoop of ink on paper and now she’ll have a lifetime of putting it to good use as she signs her will into being. Sure, her friends have all left to far corners of the cosmos, but she’s always been well aware she isn’t the most liked in her friend group. That doesn’t matter- has it ever mattered? Who needs friends when you’re the most powerful person on the planet, Janey? She hasn’t figured it out yet, but she’ll soon come to the same conclusion I have. That people liking you doesn’t get shit done. The greatest leaders in history were feared and respected, not buddy buddy laissez-faire. Jane’s going to go down in history. It’s only partly because of me, but I’ll take the credit anyway.</span>
  <span class="narrative"> She slips a hand under her glasses, pinches the bridge of her nose, but doesn’t cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Elsewhere, I’m on the floor. Not the first time I’ve been seen astral projecting myself horizontal but also not exactly planned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">It seems the gravity’s off. I mostly fly these days for ease of access, but not so much so that I fail to notice the pull on my chest. I’m unused to a planet’s gravitational pull and I struggle against it for a few seconds before eventually overcoming it. Obviously, because I’m not a fucking wuss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">From the floor, it’s easy to figure out where I am and it immediately pisses me off. This is the old house. Not a home, as Jake so kindly put it when he packed his shit the first time around, not really much of anything. Just a place where two blokes really start to get each other’s goat, so maybe it’s best if we have our own places from now on. I always found the place pretty fucking homely until the rug was took out from under me. Now I’m just sitting on a bare ass floor, wondering why the fuck I’m back here. I didn’t intend on whatever narrative pocket this is, so unless I just had a seizure and thought this was a good idea, there’s been some mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Reluctantly, I stand and make my way down the hall. It’s warm, much warmer than it was the few months I stayed here before eventually doing the walk of recently-dumped shame to a shabby studio apartment. I never really unpacked. Then again, neither did Jake. I stub my toe on a box and curse. The whistling stops- I hadn’t even noticed there had been whistling until I’m suddenly standing in a lack of it. I turn the corner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake English is standing in the workshop like it’s still ours. Like he hadn’t already left this house years ago, hadn’t thrown an Skaia industries spanner at the wall behind my head when he was walking out, and like whatever newly-weds moved in after us haven’t turned it into a fan-fucking-tastic nursery. In the angled light coming from the window, the shadowed ghost of a bruise still looks to marr the slant of his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">I ask him what the fuck he’s doing in the house. I, of course, don’t ask him what the fuck *I* am doing in the house, given that I should have already been squarely fucked off into the ether right now. I’ve already hurt him a deserved amount, so there’s no need to further his pain by making him think for a minute. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">DIRK: What are you doing?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">I can admit that I’m a little stressed. I forgive myself, therefore, for offering Jake a vague question instead of cutting to the meat of it. Of course, he doesn’t offer me the same courtesy, instead answering the question as shallowly as he will do anything given an inch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="jake">JAKE: Working, Strider. Honestly, you ask the daftest questions! I would’ve thought you had a pair of eyes behind those glasses of yours.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He, of course, knows better than anyone that I do. As I’ve already made clear, he’s been pretty up close and intimate with my eyewear and all they obscure. We’ve gone through the charade of how he used to furtively slip them off me, as if he was revealing some innermost secret behind them that only he was privy to. Or maybe that’s one of those universal assumptions that seems to have been made about my eternal eye-related vulnerability that was tossed to the wayside when you decided I was a douchebag. Up to you to determine that one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake doesn’t look as uncomfortable as he most certainly feels, what with all this undoubtedly running through his otherwise lacking brain. He’s always been a mixture of an open book and a complete liar; the inner conflict of the irremovable emotional wall versus the unstoppable barrage of inappropriate oversharing. He’s obviously had to improve his poker-face. It’s only a little insulting that he’s managed to do it not after my years of encouragement but after my disappearance rendered him unable to bluff his way through life without it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Nope, nadda. No reaction, only those blithe guileless eyes as if this is the most comfortable narrative exposition in the world. I ask him why he’s here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">DIRK: Why?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">That’s not what I expect, nor he apparently as he raises his brows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="jake">JAKE: Why am I working? That’s a bit of an odd question but I suppose with all work and no play the devil would find something for your hands to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He winks. I shove him, because really?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Except all my hands do is twitch by my side. I try again but they refuse to move, which is a fucking buzzkill. Guess this is some memory- not that I can’t usually manipulate those, or, for the record, leave them, but my body seems pretty intent on keeping this one canon accurate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">As for which memory, I can’t place it. I’ve been in this room more times than I could count regardless. Aside from spending two entire summers in here, working against scalding metal under the sun coming in from that window, I’ve been fucked over this desk like twelve times. Just for your information, in case anyone was still debating that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">I can already guess which one of the above this is a memory of. I find my legs walking over to the desk. I turn, leaning back against it. I’m certainly not intentionally looking one way or the other, but clearly whatever way I am looking is making Jake look some sort of way back. His brows raise into his hairline and colour starts to rise up the column of his neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="jake">JAKE: Oh!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake’s crossing the floor and-- right. Got that in one I guess. Jesus fuck, this is why I avoid this kind of narrative meandering. You can’t even consider a past thread with a guy to provide some structural background without falling down a horny rabbit hole of memories. Double entendre of rabbits fully intended even if breeding is so not my style it isn’t funny.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He puts a hand on either side of my own, pressing in. He isn’t even touching me but I can feel the body heat he’s emitting. It goes right through me and settles in a coil in my stomach, winding its way through me like a fucking parasite. He leans in to kiss me and, right, this needs to stop here. No one needs to see this twice in one day. I tell him to stop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Or, I don’t. Once again, cat’s got my proverbial tongue. Or, something’s got a chokehold on the narrative. Whatever it is, it’s pissing me the fuck off. Thankfully, Jake must get the message from my eyes and pauses, tipping his forehead against my own. I take this opportunity to get some of my dignity back and actually speak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">DIRK: Why are you still here?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">I mean, firstly, I don’t know why either me or Apparation-Jake here are wasting more time in this pocket of reality. Why are we still here? If it were up to me, we’d have been out of here quicker than Jodie Foster bailing from Into The Hot Zone after she figured out she’d never have a more memorable starring role than that monkey from Friends had leading the charge in Outbreak. On a similar vein, I would have been out of there quicker than the entire cast should have gotten the fuck out of dodge in Outbreak, both in and out of film. And it is up to me, so really, why is the only question relevant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Narratively speaking though, why is he still here anyway? This time at least, in this period of time. Jake comes and goes quicker than Cotton-Eye Joe and I’m shocked he’s not just as riddled. He’s bound to figure out sooner rather than later for the fifteenth time that this isn’t what he wants- or at least, not what he wants when this and snorting lines off some troll bitch’s ass is mutually exclusive. So why now, why this time? Why did he ever stick around when he knows full fucking well he doesn’t want to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake looks at me funny. His glasses are slightly lopsided, crooked over the bridge of his nose in a way that’s usually reserved for after he’s kissed the face off me. The corner of his lip quirks up and I hate how my heart twitches, but am equally thankful that it’s not my dick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="jake">JAKE: Don’t be daft. I’d miss you terribly if you were gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">This is disgusting. Get me the fuck out of here. I know the drill already. The formula of showing some level of vulnerability, giving some shallow line heard out of a movie once, swoon, ???, profit. Most likely in the form of memorable if only for its regretability factor sex. So where’s the narrative escape rope? The hook to pull me off stage? The “stop me if you’ve heard this one before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He leans in to kiss me. Nope, no, not fucking happening. Stop this ride, I’m getting off (side note, not something that would have been front and centre of my mind during any soon arriving ride should I fail at getting the fuck out of dodge here.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">His lips are smoother than I remember this close. Either it’s the lorn animal in my brain romanticising a guy who thinks Lynx is an aphrodisiac or he’s wearing chapstick. Either are equally likely. Wearing chapstick and babe-killer antiperspirant are as mutually exclusive as being both the ultimate kingpin on every multiplane of existence and being a dude who’s half considering waiting this ride out and seeing where it goes. Half-considering, I say, because the part of my brain that’s not apparently derangedly horny for Katy Perry’s calling card is still fully plotting my imminent escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">It’s in times like these that I wish Rose had reached the potential of her Ultimate Self before me, been the all-knowing sensei to my karate-learning ingenue. If not for her innate sense of wisdom about game mechanics then for the likelihood that if she’d been in my shoes she would have written a manual for situations like these. Though, Rose has always been more known for fucking shit up herself than doomsday planning. It’s in our nature. Hence: I don’t have a backup plan for what to do when simply writing myself out of the situation doesn’t work. I can only stall with vast amounts of narrative exposition for so long before the story starts to fall apart and start to look like a struggle to meet the word count of a senior essay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He leans in closer and his breath smells like scotch already. There’s a practically full juice glass of the stuff perched precariously on the desk behind me as I lean back, irrespective of the rules of alcoholic beverage pouring that I’ve observed that clearly dictate that you leave an indiscernible amount of room at the top of the glass to give the impression that your drinking in particular is the refined sort, and that you use a tumblr for scotch. He’s clearly set it out here, after taking an immediately rued sip, and hoped that it would somehow impress me. Clearly no one involved here knows me at all. One, I’m not impressed. Two, it’s played right into my hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">It barely takes a twitch of my fingers back as he’s puckering to catch the rim of the glass and send it careening to the ground. It lands with a smash on the rug, shattering into a thousand pieces as the liquid seeps in between the threads. There’s a metaphor there, but I’m a little busy getting the fuck out of here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake pulls back, broken out of the reverie as he looks down at the glass in bewilderment. As he spends the time putting two and two together in that big, stupid head of his, I try to flex my hand out. It stretches, then stalls, and I hiss with disgust.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He stoops down at my feet and fingers a piece of glass between two digits. Despite myself, I go to tell him to be careful but find, thankfully this time, that my voicebox is still on autopilot. He holds it up and it refracts with the light coming in the window. He sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="jake">JAKE: You really do make such an awful mess of things, Dirk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">And then I’m gone.</span></p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><h1>iii. passage</h1>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">they roll back the stone and find</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">						nothing<br/>
there</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Where am I?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">but where could He be, they cry. after all, this is<br/>
(supposedly)<br/>
right where we<br/>
left<br/>
Him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Right. Of course. It’s you again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">but He’s gone<br/>
He’s gone<br/>
it’s just not conceivable that he could be<br/>
gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">The cherub.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">and yet when they rolled back the stone, they called out for Him<br/>
if you can, tell us so<br/>
and yet nobody came</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">So, are you going to tell me what the fuck this is about. Done with hijacking our lives to make rudimentary jack-off fanfiction, so you’re going to what? Lock me in the void so you can shout god-awful contemporary poetry at me?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">so either he cannot tell us so<br/>
or<br/>
He’s left us<br/>
He’s abandoned us<br/>
He’s forsaken us<br/>
He’s betrayed us<br/>
He’s left us He’s left us He’s left us He’s left us</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">What are you actually trying to fucking achieve here. Are you trying to bore me to death?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">no one will<br/>
save us<br/>
no one will<br/>
come for us</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Are you stuck here too? Right. And what you’ve decided to do, instead of, oh I don’t know, write yourself out of the situation is to whinge into the void that no prince on a horse has come to whisk you away to safety. That’s pathetic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">for He is gone<br/>
our hope is lost</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Heard that before. Fucking yawn. Get some new material instead of ripping off Prospit tabloids from like a decade ago. Those little fuckers barely even got paid for that exposé. Didn’t know you were so blasé about worker’s rights. It’s a yikes from me, dawg.</span>
</p>
<p><span class="narrative">and yet Hope is not gone</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Mhm.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">Hope is not lost</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Right.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">simply misplaced, Hope is not where we left it</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">You don’t say.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">Hope has gone, but where if not to us<br/>
for us<br/>
for the sake of us<br/>
in spite of us</span></p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">So, this is a cult, right? You’re trying to initiate me into a cult here. No thanks, I’m more of an Orange Crush kind of guy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Hope has gone but will<br/>
Return</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Heard that before.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">Hope has gone but will<br/>
Rise anew</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">I repeat, fucking yawn.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">Hope has gone but will<br/>
Ascend.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Yeah okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Wait, what?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">What the fuck was that?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Now you’re going to ignore me, aren’t you. You’re just going to go full Amazon self-published crap on me, spout some vague bullshit that’s supposedly what, foreshadowing? And then fuck off? God, you’re such a bitch. And was that about Jesus? Did you write weirdly horny blog-poetry about Jesus? Sounds like a crock of shit. </span>
</p>
<p> 
  <span class="ultdirk">You know what. I don’t even care. I’m out, roll the tape. </span></p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><h1>iv. hamartia</h1>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Yikes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Anyway. Enough about that. Let’s get back to business. Though I suppose you can take that as a far too personal lesson into hamartia, of which I’ve had plenty. I may be the best god you’re gonna get around these parts but I have a laundry list of personal failings. I’m not so cocky as to rewrite them out of history. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">After all, everyone has personal flaws. Some more pathetic and unlikeable than others. You wouldn’t read a story where everyone’s moony eyed and perfect, reflecting your obviously superior political and moral compass at every turn. Otherwise nothing would ever happen. Just a bunch of pol-sci majors sitting around a Starbucks table, discussing how great they are and jacking each other off under the table. Oops, or maybe public fondling is a bit too problematic. You won’t have much fun with perfect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Everyone here has receipts. Rose is as much a reactionary as she is a revolutionary, contrarian for the sake of it. She’s an absolute nightmare to live with. Dave is fake woke and cares more about scoring petty points than actually ensuring any sort of dedicated social change. Jane’s an entitled brat and no one, myself included of course, has ever thought to do anything other than encourage her or embolden her with their shitty debating skills. Roxy will put getting what they want above the right thing nine times out of ten. Don’t even try me on that one. Look who you’re talking to here. Roxy cries that they’re the only one trying to make things work when their idea of making things work is just what’s easiest for them and fuck the rest of us. Didn’t see Roxy caring much about “keeping the gang together” when they took Jake’s ship and left him behind to be Jane’s eternal candy-boy. I mean, so did I, but I didn’t pretend to be his friend when I did it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">And on that note, as I have established on many an occasion thus far, Jake English’s fatal flaw has always been his all-consuming, overpowering need to play the fucking victim. His saving grace has been that there has always been someone ready and willing to play the opposing role. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I’ll paint you a picture of when it began. The tragic story of an orphan boy forced to send his dear sweet matriarch up in flames. It’s a tale that could build a hero, were Jake ever built to be a protagonist. But Jake is a coward with heroic aspirations and no will to ever take a stand to achieve them. At best, he remains a perpetual sidekick- the Robin to a superior hero. Or, at worst, he remains the perpetual indentured damsel- the Quinn to a series of non compos mentis bad guys.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You see, there are people who are built to get shit done. There are people who are natural-born leaders. Even Egbert serves a purpose, a blank slate for a constantly evolving target audience to project on to. After all, how else are you supposed to feel like your life serves a purpose if it’s not from jacking off to the heroic exploits of a main character who has so few defining character traits that you could envision slipping right into their shoes if you weren’t so bankrupt of any iota of aptitude. Chin up, king, your Dorito dust is slipping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">This is why people with bleak and palatable personalities, and only minor character flaws, make the most appealing protagonists. Perhaps it’s too harsh to say the reason is that every avid consumer of media is a boring, socially maladjusted basement dweller though. After all, I’m known to consume media from time to time and, I’d like to clarify once again for the record, I’m a fucking chad. But the facts remain. Most people don’t want a challenge. They want someone who’s easy, understandable, reasonable. They don’t want someone they have to work to like. You spend enough time in your life struggling to like Janet from HR enough so that you don’t snort lines of coke or blow your brains out in the office bathroom to force the same fake water cooler smile you save for her when you’re trying to chill the fuck out and watch a movie, mindlessly wiping drool out the side of your gaping maw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Case in fucking point. Yours truly. Or Vriska, but this ain’t about her for once, thank fucking god. I may be chill and blessed with dashing good looks, and sure, everyone wants some of me. But there’s still a fair amount of debate on whether the part they want is my dick, my heart, or my head on a silver platter. I’ve long since figured out that you don’t need to be the protagonist to be the main character. To be the one making shit happen. Here’s some narrative studies 101 for you. Protagonists change, they adapt. Usually because they’re too fucking redundant to have a starting point worth sticking with, so they turn on their heads like a turntop and come out the other side a changed dude. You’ve heard it all before. You know what you’re getting in for. You see a main character and just know he’s about to go through some deep personal shit. That mouse has got more triangles than a 10th grade math book and more edges than Hot Topic, yet every time you sit your ass on the couch and watch, like the big reveal isn’t going to be that he ate the fucking cheese.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Antagonists get shit done. No story would ever kick its ass in gear without someone changing the scenery. My life became a lot easier when I realised that this was always my calling. Who would have read an Epilogue about Egbert’s daddy issues or a JadeDaveKat picnic? People want stuff to happen, so they can obliviously harp over how they would have handled things so much better. They’d be different, if it was them. They wouldn’t change so dramatically. You think you could never have been a fascist? You think you’d never hurt people, cheat, lie, ruin your life on a whim? Maybe you can keep telling yourself that. I’ve already established you’re delusional. But no one surely is stupid enough to think that they live in a utopia where they get out of bed every morning and engage in a society that never pushes your story to change. It’s 2020, bitch, you know what’s coming. I hope you all love clowns as much as you love white supremacy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You know as well as I do that this story wouldn’t exist if I wasn’t good at wrecking shit. It’s sort of my M.O. Surprised you didn’t see this coming, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">And yet, despite all that, you’re not here for me at all, are you?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">No. You’re here for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">In spite of all warning signs to the contrary, you’re here because you still have some faint hope that Jake English, of all people, can save a story. Why? Have you somehow found kinship with the most indiscernible character paradox space had to offer? Like Emily Blunt salivating for Jamie Dornan’s hate crime worthy accent, has he said some incomprehensible bullshit that made you simper, oh Daddy, I must have him after all. Has his thick-skulled head tricked you into the mistaken belief that you can project upon him, as if any attempt to understand him wouldn’t result in a 404 error on Tumblr aesthetic blog’s bio? Or what, do you want him for the same reason everyone else wants him? Join the fucking club. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You want Jake English so bad? Fine. I can get Jake. I’m sure he’s right where I fucking left him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">He’s put clothes on since the last time I saw him, thank fucking christ. It’s not much, just a floor length robe that could have been intended as a smoking jacket or the kind of silk number a sugar baby happens to be wearing when the cops show up to tell her that her geriatric husband has been killed in a mysterious car crash. He’s sitting- no lounging, on the bottom step of his ridiculously curved staircase. Jake doesn’t sit normally. He’s either spread around the place, all limbs and each one placed in a manner that manages to be offensive, or he’s neatly lounging, like he’s prepared to be consumed by whoever comes around the corner next. He must still be hoping for my return and wants to be slightly more presentable this time around. It’s kind of insulting that he still doesn’t get that the coquettish damsel bullshit doesn’t do it for me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">If he was in his right mind, he might have been able to appreciate that I tried to do it for him. I tried to give in to his Hollywood hangups, his perpetual victimhood. He probably wanted Star Wars or Romancing the Stone, but he doesn’t get to make the rules for me anymore. So I gave him Gone With the fucking Wind. And who doesn’t love a fucking classic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Judging by the half drunk bottle of tequila beside a meaty, half uncovered thigh, I guess he’s not as much of a Vivienne Leigh fan as he made himself out to be, what with that bedazzled phone background he had of her once, sandwiched between two of his other gaudy b-list actor gifs. I can’t say I give a fuck about Scarlett O’ Hara- if you were really ironic, you could say that frankly, I don’t give a damn- but I know she deserves better than to be stuck between glittery Adam Sandler and Seth Rogan. Digressing, Jake is stupidly drunk which is one of his two possible forms these days. He’s either ossified and off his fucking face on something, or he’s pretending to be to get out of hot water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Right now, the lack of wide eyed audience to his furthering derangement and the lack of a more public-image-appropriate alcohol of choice points to the former anyway. I’m not exactly an alcohol guy, but I can get why he pretends to drink scotch before spitting it into the nearest pot plant in public, and saves the tequila and coke for a flask in his ‘dex. If only for the sordid origins of his particular brand of tequila. Don’t see how Earth C’s vegetarian spokesperson is cool with downing pickled worm to get shitfaced off, but maybe they provide companionship for the worms in his brain. It’s actually reunification. A political master plan. At least that’s how the press would see it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Speaking of red-headed tabloids, the stack of them gathering unread by Jake’s mailbox are still having a field day with his little Strider-induced public meltdown last week. Considering they just elected their first god-president, you’d think it wouldn’t be such a slow news week but what would they do without wringing every little drop from a story about their precious boy wonder. Jake keeps half the journalists on this pathetically superficial planet in their jobs between public fuck-ups, public fucks, and being generally fucked up in public. By how much they’re dragging this out though, he might not actually be able to sweep this under the rug next news cycle. People are still going to be gossiping about how he lost his absolute fucking mind for me, while eating fries out of yesterday’s discarded newspaper exposé on it. It’s every day that Jake does something utterly stupid in public. It’s not every day that he admits that he’s head over heels in love with me. I would know. He only ever seemed to mention it at all when I was one foot out the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">And now he watches that same door, like a lost puppy waiting for his owner to come back and love him. Or put him down like a dog. But we all have to grow up some time and, newsflash English, it’s not going to be me coming back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">The doorbell rings and he perks up. The furry in me can sense a tail wagging. Then Jane slips a manicured nail through the letterbox and flips it open, calling through the hole, “Jake, open the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">He freezes. No doubt he’s remembering my parting wisdom for him and knowing his chickens have finally come back to roost. I’m surprised Jane’s even waited this long to be honest. His breath starts coming shaky out of his mouth, and he covers it tightly with a hand. Outside, Jane sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">“I know you’re in there.” Her voice sounds tight, undoubtedly fed up. Can’t blame her; she’s been saddled with my job of eternal Jake babysitter since I and literally everyone else decided to get out of dodge. “Honestly, you can’t hide in there forever. I’m very busy, Jake, and I really don’t have time to keep coming here every day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">He gulps audibly and she tchs, also audible. There sure is a whole lot of noises being made here. Great conversation skills, A fucking 1. She wasn’t kidding, bro. She doesn’t have time for this. You’re keeping the new president of the free world waiting outside your door like a microwave salesman when you should be serving her every whim. What else have you to do? Got some more of your life to ruin, English?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">She shuts the letterbox with a clatter and Jake recoils from the noise like he’s been slapped. “Fine,” she says, less audible now. “You could help me out, you know, seeing as you’re the only one who hasn’t just upped and left.” Oops. My bad, I guess. “Without Dirk, I haven’t had a minute’s peace trying to wind up the campaign and I thought at least one of my friends would be able to pick up the slack. But it’s fine, Jake. I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do.” She scoffs, and then there’s only the sound of the furious clicks of her heels on pavement as she stomps out of Jake’s driveway, fading into silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">She has a point, pal. I mean, she never expected you to pick up the slack, but you could have at least provided the downtime entertainment. Or what, you only want to act like a clown under the cover of darkness? No wonder she’s so disappointed in you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">He sits in rigid silence for several minutes, like even a peep or an escaped sob will alert her. Like a jackal circling his house in search of prey. It’s only when he can’t clamp his hand any tighter over his mouth and the sobs start to escape nonetheless that he gives up and weeps openly into his elbow. God, haha, what a fucking loser. Get a grip, English. How can anyone ever count on you for anything?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">He stumbles up the stairs, pausing only to right himself against the bannister, holding onto it like a lifeline. Honestly, his flair for the dramatic is getting on my nerves. This isn’t even that fucking bad. If he hates the idea of being Jane’s eternal candy boy so badly, why doesn’t he man up and do something about it? Another rolled up newspaper slips through his letterbox, landing on the others with a dull thud that makes him wince. It’s times like this Jake could use his basic-pop-culturally limited frame of reference and ask himself, what would Troll Taylor Swift do? So some douchebag’s ruined your reputation 101 TL;DR. After all, someone’s bound to write an exposé revealing what a prick I was to be around at some point, and then he can swoop right back in where he left of without ever thinking about this whole fuck-up critically again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Eventually, he makes it to the bedroom. It’s pathetic how unsteady he is, nearly teetering over as he holds himself up on the gaudy antiqued dresser I had to fight to relegate to the basement in our old place. He can’t possibly like it, unless it’s once again the worms attracting him to its mottled surface. He just put it here, right in line of the bed, to spite me whenever I’d come over, the passive aggressive bastard. Ironically, there’s a photo frame with a picture of us at some awards ceremony perched on the edge, right under the mirror he’s staring into, clawing at the bags under his eyes. His eyes dart to the photo, no doubt remembering how his arm was wrapped too tightly around my shoulders, his smile too wide and fake, pretending he didn’t almost forget to mention me in his speech and acting like if he held me tight enough it wouldn’t matter. It probably didn’t at the time, but now my stoic face stares out of the photograph at him and taunts him like the stupid fucking dresser and his face crumples into a thousand pieces as he knocks it face down with a wail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">I’ve really done a number on him, haven’t I? Look, I didn’t mean to make the guy lose his fucking marbles. I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine, see how great it feels to be crazy about a guy who’s never going to stick around. If anything, this was a bit of an annoying side effect of it all. I mean, I’m sure he’ll get over it eventually- plenty of people lose someone and learn to be happy. It’s not like I’m dead anyway. I just ain’t giving a shit anymore. So he’ll figure it out and regain some of those marbles again, obviously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake throws open the dresser drawer and pulls out a gun. It fits neatly into the palm of his hand, like an additional limb, and he tests the weight of it.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> I’m going to have to bail if he starts downing more bottles for target practice again. Trust me, this isn’t even as sloppy as it can get with him and no one wants to stick around to watch that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">After a moment of fumbling, he checks the cartridge. It’s loaded but, then again, it always is. When it comes to gun safety, Jake is nothing but thorough.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> If by thorough you mean prepared for anything except potentially shooting his own foot off.</span>
  <span class="narrative"> He walks backwards to the bed, tapping the barrel anxiously against the palm of his other hand. The backs of his thighs hit the mattress and he sits, staring vacantly into his reflection in the mirror opposite him. He puts the gun in his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Jesus christ, what a drama queen. Assuming this is a wanton display of vulnerability to an audience he’s always been a little too aware of for his own good and not another fucking kink. The latter is only surprising in that he seems uncertain in what he’s doing because there’s no way in fresh fuck it hasn’t already crossed his mind to fellate the barrel of a gun. The guy offered his head up on a silver platter for some walking sex dream he barely knew as a kid, so it surprises no one he’s got a penchant for romantacising death a bit too hard to be strictly normal. I could go on to define what I exactly mean by normal sexual provictivies, considering I’m the fucking academic authority on the subject of deviation from the vanilla, but Jake’s face is crumpling around the barrel as he watches his reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and, sure, it’s more or less attractive. I can dig the castaway look on someone who’s not sucking off a gun and bawling like an infant going ape on a pacifier.</span>
  <span class="narrative"> He removes the gun from his mouth and stares at the floor, big shoulders heaving up and down as he sucks air into his lungs. He removes the safety.</span>
</p>
<p><span class="ultdirk">That’s going to be a lot of fucking blood to clean up, bro. I know being god-tier lends itself to easing the danger of certain interests, but you’ll never get all that out of the sheets and for a perpetual lonely bachelor you’ve at least splashed out on the 600 thread count.</span><span class="narrative"> He regards himself in the mirror and thinks, well old boy, you’ve really screwed the pooch this time.</span><span class="ultdirk"> Ugh, of course he does. Fucking phrasing, English.</span><span class="narrative"> When he thinks about it, his whole life has been spent trying to right wrongs he never really understood and do the right thing by everyone around him. But he’s failed even at that. Of all the things Dirk ever asked of him, he never managed to do any of them right. What kind of sorry fellow can’t even figure out how to love the man he loves, his apparent soulmate?</span><span class="ultdirk"> For the record, I don’t really buy the whole soulmates thing, but Jake watches The Notebook on a bi-annual basis and cries every single damn time, so this partiality for love-lorn dramatics isn’t that surprising.</span><span class="narrative"> And now, after he’s thoroughly fucked up everything else in his life, he can’t even do the one last thing Dirk asked of him. The one last thing he was ever good for, right? The last prophecy in a long line of failed prophecies.</span> </p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Around the body of the gun, Jake’s hand begins to glow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Huh, fucking finally. I’d lost faith in you, English. For those out of the loop, another funny thing about Jake English and his laundry list of flaws is that his hamartia for constantly playing the victim has come with a cost. A narrative cost and, to be frank, a very human cost. Jake is the walking evidence that a chosen one can avoid his destiny if only he pretends to be stupid hard enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Press pause and walk with me for a second. Remember the Sleepy Hallows? Headless Horseman? Of course you do, it was the drop everyone fucking waited for. Jane’s hapless wish upon a star, trickster pumpkin heads, the mad fucking hatter. Off with his fucking head. No one gets that many bread crumbs and doesn’t follow through, right? But it’s not the head of Jake English that gets served up on a silver platter. It’s yours truly- multiple times, might I add.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Let’s open that wormhole a little deeper then, shall we? Take the orphan boy named after Lord English. Who just so happens to have a fuck tonne of English-tech fashioned after the big brute himself. Oh, and he has a penchant for green skulled film jackasses, and shitty b-flicks about puppeting dead bodies around. Any of that sound suspicious to you? Think maybe someone’s trying to tell you something? Quick recap though- that’s me behind the sarcophagus too. Or, at least as much of me as there needs to be for some puppeteering and general badassery. Can’t say being a camp-dressed Incredible Hulk holds a candle to being a chill dude like me, but a guy can still admire his own handiwork. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">You’re getting impatient. Your mouth is hanging open, waiting for me to spoon feed you some truths like you’re an overstimulated infant. Don’t worry, here comes the airplane. Jake English is a coward in a narrative that cries out for a hero. So what does he do instead of rise to the occasion? He sits on his metaphorical ass and waits for a prince to save him from his own fucking story. Enter Dirk Simp Strider on stage left. Jake leaves a comical person-shaped hole in the fourth wall as he scrambles through it to escape the most mildly inconvenient of his destinies, and who only me, hot on his heels as per fucking usual, is there to fill up the space? And thus it’s my head on the chopping block. In a way, we’re both chickens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">At first, I didn’t realise I was doing it. You’ll be shocked to know I haven’t always been this wise and brilliant- at one point I was piteous as you and him. When I started to come to terms with my own existence within this narrative, I figured it was just my role. Jake can’t do it, so someone’s gotta pick up the slack. But Jake can do it. He did it when he thought he’d lose me. In five seconds flat, he could light the place up like Times Square. But I’ve made it easy for him to be complacent- I let him hide behind me like a kid on his first day at god-school and he’s spent every class crying for his mommy ever since. Don’t get me wrong, I tried to train him. I haven’t spent all my time getting my head lobbed off on the sidelines. I’ve tried scaring him, I’ve tried hurting him, I’ve tried choking him until he passes out on top of me like a drunken oaf. No dice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">They say pages have to hit rock bottom to do anything worthwhile, but how do you force that in a dude who’s lived his entire life scraping his knees across the coral reef and has only stopped to find a shovel. Apparently, he has to lose me. And look at him now, lighting up the room like a fucking sunbeam. I’m actually kind of fucking stoked to see what he can do with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake puts the gun under his chin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Wait, why? He doesn’t even need the fucking gun anymore. Yoo hoo, earth to English. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re sparking off 4th of July style. You don’t need a gun show. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">He sucks in a heavy breath like he’s trying not to choke on it, and steadies his hand.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> His glowing hand. Is that seriously not even registering with him? Is he that determined to, what, shoot himself? What’s that even going to fucking achieve, Jake. You’re clearly not getting your rocks off, and there’s no one watching. It’s not like it’s going t</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Well. Normally it wouldn’t, uh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake steels himself as his finger fumbles for the trigger--</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> Woah woah, hold your fucking horses. No he doesn’t. You get this right? All joking aside, dude’s not really in his right mind at the moment. He needs to channel that self-belief into something other than, what, self-hatred? Suicidal intention? He could actually do damage like this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">His finger finds the trigger.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> Hold up, are you listening to me? English. Tone down the lights brigade or you’ll fuck up the clock. You’re a thick bastard, not fucking evil. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">He closes his eyes. You’re not listening to me. Are you doing this to piss me off? What do you even want from me? You want me to apologise for the Old Yeller thing? Then fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I implied I’d take you out back and shoot you like a dog. Happy?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="ultdirk">Stop it. This isn’t fucking funny anymore. I hate you, I don’t want you dead. I don’t even hate you that much, okay? I was being fucking dramatic. Is that what you want to hear? I lashed out and blamed you because you fucking hurt me and it didn’t even make you happy. There! You broke my heart for no fucking reason and you’re still miserable. You know, it wouldn’t have been half as bad if you did it for a fucking reason, if you did it to be better. But I knew you just did it so you could do the same self-destructive bullshit you always do, so you could give yourself a justification for how fucking terrible you feel all the time. Join the fucking club. You know what, hurting you didn’t make me all that fucking happy either! I thought it would at least balance the scales, be fucking karmic retribution or something, but it wasn’t. I’m just angry and bitter and so fucking sorry all the time. You think I don’t get it? I fucking do, so just stop it!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake then looks right into the camera.</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> No he fucking doesn’t.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">Then,</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> Answer me.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">he</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> Puts it down, he puts it the fuck down.</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">pulls</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> He fucking doesn’t!</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">the</span>
  <span class="ultdirk"> I know you can hear me, stop fucking-</span><br/>
<span class="narrative">trigger.</span><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><h1>v. golgotha</h1>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">Bang. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="narrative">A small flag hits me in the centre of my forehead. On the end is a freshly fired beretta, and on the end of that is Jake fucking English. </span>
</p>
<p><span class="jakeult">Jake: Howdy. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *Jake spins his pistol back to his mouth and expertly blows smoke off its red hot barrel.*</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *Absofuckinglutely suggestively.*</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You’re such a fucking bastard.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Well thats no way to talk to an old friend. Wheres my hello or my otherwise exchanged pleasantries? Id at least have been haggling to get a hug out of you after all that gruesome shit. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *He holds the gun back out with expert precision and uses his free hand to push his hair back. All that shooting fake shooting and dying hullabaloo takes it out of a fellow.*</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Yeah, no fucking thanks. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Also how long have you been out here and why are you trying to rock the John Stamos ‘do? Full House is not the 90s comeback anyone asked for.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Wait, scratch that, dying? So that all actu</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Jeepers buddy cool it with the spanish inquisition. Honestly this is the lousiest welcome ive ever gotten. Youre a terrible host. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: That’s bullshit. I’m a great fucking host.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Youre the friggin worst. This is like the worlds worst wake. Shouldn’t you be a whizz at all this bizz-aroo bushwa what with your intergalactic stag dos and assorted gobbledy-gook? I dont think i want you planning my funeral anymore if youre going to be a debbie downer about it.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Could you...stop talking about dying for a sec? That would be really fucking great.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Whoopsie daisies i forgot how difficult that was for *you* for a moment there!</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *Jake crosses his arms UNAMUSED.*</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Is this how this works now? You’re just going to tell me straight up what you’re doing as we go along?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *Jake nods sagely.*</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You’re having a fucking field day with this, aren’t you? Finally have an excuse to rp all your actions out loud. Not that it being the cringiest thing since lolcats ever stopped you before. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Lolcats arent cringey. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: This is not what we’re doing right now. You see this? This argument we’re about to have about whether or not lolcats are cringe, where I give you annotated, peer reviewed proof that lolcats are the worst meme to curse this planet and are the soul provocateur in the deterioration of meme culture over the last decade, and your answer will be to run a poll among the consort population asking if they like cheeseburgers and when they confirm that they do you consider this an “own” on me? This isn’t fucking happening. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Sure bro i can drop it.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Thanks.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: For the record though you would have been so owned. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Jesus fuck.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Just...shut up. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Well i coooould...but that would be rather boring right? Just a huge ole blank space while you go gather your thoughts when i could be filling it up with something a bit more riveting. A little show and tell if you will. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You make it sound like you’re about to start stripping.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Heavens no this is not that kind of story. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Not that theres anything wrong with that kind of story so to speak. I can see why it engages people. One would certainly be engaged if it were occurring so to s</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I already told you to shut up.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: And i already clarified that i was paying that no fucking mind thank you very much. Now how about if youve nothing nice to say to your long lost compatriot then you kindly shut your trap and let someone else get a bit of jibber jabber in capiche?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: …</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Glad to see were on the same page compadre. Ay carumba look at all that orange you sure do know how to rabbit on unnecessarily. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Just gimme a sec…</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Wait you dont like plato anymore? Hes the old guy who was always harping on about virtue and triangles and blah-de-blah right? I was much under the impression that he was sort of your thing?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Are you just fucking reading up?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Can he do that?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Who are you talking to?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Oh fuck off. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: What are you trying to pull, English?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I assume this has been you from the start. Congratufuckinglations, you got me. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: What does this achieve? You drag me through the narrative like some bastardised Christmas Carol 2: This Time It’s Easter and what, profit? Side note, since when are you a fucking Christian?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Im not. Golgotha just sounded kinda cool in my head and i ran with it. Figured it suited my brand.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Thank god, I thought you were actually attempting to school me using ecclesiastical lore but you’re actually just engaging in some character-typical cultural bastardisation. It’s so incomprehensibly dumb that it’s actually impressive. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Pseudo-kudos gratefully accepted my good amigo. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: ...anyway. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: That doesn’t actually answer any questions aside from the eternal question of how thick that skull of yours actually is. For the record, it’s currently looking pretty fucking thick. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I don’t give a shit about how you got here. I’ve got to hand it to you, I didn’t think you’d have the balls.  But now that you are here, what are you going to fucking do about it?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You’ve already had a gun to my head. Why don’t you stop being a coward and use it already. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Go on then. You know it’ll be Just. Put us both out of our misery. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Woah bro chill out. Its just a story. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: That’s the whole fucking point.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Whist up. I think youd actually rather like it if i sent you off to live with the fishes wouldnt you?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *Jake gives the pistol another spin for good luck before aiming it right back at the centre of dirks humongous overclocked forehead.*</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: My forehead isnt t</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: It probably gets your goat a little that im not dave i know but really strider beggars cant be choosers and you are frankly kind of asking for it with all your high falutin villainy mumbo jumbo.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Well not *asking for it*. Thats rather poor phrasing i feel. Not that youd give two hoots about that. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I get it, I’m sorry or whatever for my past shitty phrasing. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Yikes i think i deserve another apology just for having to listen to that piss poor attempt. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Or maybe its a fat lot of good either way. I dont suppose words have got us anywhere so far. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I actually think it’s been well established that a lack of words gets us int</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: No i rather think youve spoken enough actually.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: …</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Maybe this is the sort of redemption arc a fellows supposed to have. Mine i mean. Maybe this is how i go about redeeming myself in the short term. A big show of gusto in taking you out of the picture. Give you your karmic comeuppance and maybe my karma will balance itself out for once. Ive always felt like ive spent my whole life apologising for i dont know what.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I think it would be a little ironic you know. For the one thing ive done right in my sorry life in your eyes to be putting a bullet between them. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Maybe.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I was never really listening when you went on and on with the whole irony spiel. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: But maybe if i did do something like that maybe everything would start being okay for once. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Maybe…</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Maybe i think im rather sick of waiting around for that sort of thing.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I really have just spent so much of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop and trying to figure out why it is that i always end up back at rock bottom no matter how hard i try to swim. Or admittedly how hard i often try to drown. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I really did think all this was *my* karmic comeuppance this whole time. The universe once again getting on my eternal kismetic goat just in case i was getting too big for my britches. Too sure that things would go right for a change. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: But...i dont think i really believe in any of that anymore? Maybe bad things just happen because things really fucking suck all the time. And maybe we did everything wrong because some dumb bastard wrote us that way and not because were bad people who deserve it. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Well. Most of the time. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: You were really fucking lousy actually for a while there. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: …</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: …</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Can I speak again?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: No actually maybe you should keep being quiet. It makes a nice change. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: But you know maybe i was lousy too. Significantly less lousy i might add! A line had to be drawn in the lousiness sand at some point and i chose right around the part where i couldve told you to go get r</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Okay, okay. Shitty thing to say, I get it. Low blow even for me. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Ahem.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Oh wait.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *Jake coughs POINTEDLY.*</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Right. Sorry.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Better. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: But...yeah. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I guess maybe were not quite square. But maybe thats okay. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: *He withdraws the pistol and replaces it into his holster.*</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: That means i dont owe it to you to redeem myself. I quite frankly owe you nothing at all for once!</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: And that actually feels pretty fucking terrific!</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: …</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: What, that’s it?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Wow i put a lot of work into that speech strider and thats the reaction i get? Youre a tough cookie to crumble.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: What the fuck do you mean you don’t owe it to me to redeem yourself? Don’t you, I don’t know, want to do it for you? </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Do you literally have so little personal determination? Willpower? </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You’re your ultimate self now, right? Does that not interest you in the slightest?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: It fucking interests me. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Yes yes and we already established that i dont really care about what i have that interests you narratively speaking. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Non narratively speaking i could possibly be convinced again. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: What?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: No, backtrack. Stop changing the subject. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You seriously don’t want to investigate that light show? Not even to kick the shit out of me or anything necessarily, but like at all?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I mean we both know redemption arcs aren’t shit.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I actually quite like redemption arcs. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Right. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: The rise of skywalker was actually a bit of a tearjerker i felt. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: ...right. I don’t know why I’m fucking surprised. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Of course you’re a sucker for a redemption arc. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: But then why-</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I already said ive nothing to redeem myself for anymore. Maybe my redemption is just to stop expecting redemption all the fucking time.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Im just here to take you home. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: That’s not how this fucking works. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Oh yes it is. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: The only way I go back home is in a body bag. You know that. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I dont think i know any such thing actually. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: They won’t take me back. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Id like to see them stop me trying. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: So that’s what you’ll use the light show for? Not on the dude who actually deserves it, but on anyone who gets in his way?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Careful, bro. That sounds like super-villain talk. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Ish kabibble theres nothing villainous about it. Its romantic. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Side note, did you also think The Rise of Skywalker was romantic?</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Quite!</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Figures. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Anyway. This isn’t going to work. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Even if I don’t immediately walk into a chainsaw when you drag me back, what is it going to achieve?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Absolutely fuck all. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: We’ve well established that life is a story, but do you think we’re the kind of characters who get a fucking fairytale?</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Because we’re not. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You’re a bastard princess who’s resistant to even self-help, and I’m not your knight in shining armour. It doesn’t fucking work. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: And they banned me from the stables. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: So, nope, no white horse either. </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: I like the imagery all the same. Cute but no cigar. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: You know I can’t save you anymore, right? That narrative thread has gone up like a schismatical gunpowder plot. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I keep going down that rabbit hole and eventually we wear ourselves out again. Nothing ever changes. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: We do this dance and either I live to fight another day, because let's face it, it's always a fucking fight, or I die. Fade away. Glitch into canon irrelevance as the poor shmuck who didn't save the day in time</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: There's no happy ending for people like us. We exist to be misery lit.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: I'm fucking tired. So I quit.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Which turns the script dont you think? </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: You cant lose if you quit right? So you throw in the proverbial towel and then you *cant* go kaput into the great unknown. What kind of story would that be? </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Hardly a great improvement on the usual formula.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: So what if this time i save you instead? </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: …</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: And ill do it umpteen times if i have to. Over and over again until im blue in the puss. </span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Until you're what now.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: And if it doesnt do the trick then by gum ill take it for round three. As many times as the story needs.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: You just have to promise not to leave before the credits roll this time.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: Jake.</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: That's…</span><br/>
<span class="ultdirk">Dirk: That's not how this fucking <i>works.</i> </span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Dirk. Can you just try to believe in me? Just for once.</span><br/>
<span class="jakeult">Jake: Just believe in me.</span><br/>
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</p><h1>vi. renascence</h1>
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  <span class="narrative">You wake up in a bed. You’ve never slept very often, a side effect of a lifetime spent resting only when you passed out in the shower, and whenever you do it feels like your eyes are laden down with lead. You struggle to get them open, and then every bone in your body aches as you push yourself up with your hands and turn over on the mattress. </span>
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  <span class="narrative">Jake is perched on the edge of the bed with a cup of tea resting on his propped up knee. When you stir, he looks over his shoulder and the somewhat lost look on his face dissipates at the sight of yours. A smile spreads across his face- it always does when he sees you, after all, and you can’t remember a single time where it ever wouldn’t have. And as always, you feel the pull of your lips quirking up at the corners, like him tugging at your heart strings and puppet strings all at once. </span>
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<p>
  <span class="narrative">“I got you coffee,” he says, and it’s easy when he pushes it into your open hand. It’s easy as it goes down your throat like warm honey syrup, and it’s easy as you toss your arms around his neck and bury your face in it. He holds his arms around your waist, drawing you up and into his chest. You feel his heart thump through his ribcage and, for not the first time, your own starts to beat in sync. You think that your heart has always been maladjusted, beating ever so slightly out of key in a way that lends to anxiety, hopelessness, and you clawing at it in the expanse of your chest, lashing out at anyone who dares to tug your wrists away to peer inside lest they find it as hollow and empty as you’ve always feared it to be. But you think that here, when you’re here, your heart has always found its rhythm in proper company. He smells like smoke, earth and Old Spice cologne- more importantly, he smells like you’ve finally come home.</span>
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<p>
  <span class="narrative">Jake can piece back the stars in the sky after you’ve tore them out. He can patch up the quilt of the universe and drape you in it after you’ve tried to escape it so many times. He can let you leave, lash out, cry like a wounded animal as much as you want, as long as you know you have the key to the gingerbread house in his core to make a home out of whenever you ultimately give in again. He can rewrite your story over and over and over again until the threads all weave a technicolour dream to keep you in.</span>
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<p>
  <span class="narrative">Maybe this time it’s the end. Maybe this time you’ll make a heart your home and settle the fried nerves that surround your own. Maybe this time, you’re satisfied. </span>
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  <span class="narrative">After all, this is everything you’ve ever wanted. </span>
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  <span class="ultdirk">Isn’t it. </span>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading and I'm sorry. </p><p>This was written as part of the DirkJake Big Bang 2021 and I was delighted to have the excuse to actually write again. Thank you to Rads for organising and to Mango for proofreading this 12 times for me!</p><p>In conjunction with me writing this, Kitty (@mayceart on Twitter and Instagram) made the best companion art I've seen in my life to go with it, and if you don't go follow them now I'll go Outbreak monkey on you. And here it is! Please comment on how wonderful and great it is or (further primate threats)</p><p>Once again, thanks for reading and, once again, sorry.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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